For days, I watched him.

For weeks, I watched him.

For months, I watched him.

I watched as he ran his fingers through his mussed hair, as he bit his lip in concentration while he did his calculus, as his chest slowly rose and fell while he slept.

I was always watching him.

Sometimes, he would look over at the faded picture of me on his bedside table with a mournful look, his eyes glazing over as the memories of me flooded his mind. Memories of dancing in the rain, baking cookies for his birthday, kissing on his bed, days spent in the hospital, goodbyes. My funeral. And then he would shake his head, sigh, and move on with his life.

Unlike me.

As the seasons changed, less and less would he look at my picture and remember me. Remember us.

And so as I watched him, each day more than the last feeling saddened with the idea of him forgetting – my smile, my voice, my touch.

It was one of these dark days when, after weeks of no acknowledgement, he looked over at my picture. As if struck by lightening, he ran to get a piece of paper and a pen and sat on his bed. When he was finished writing, the paper was empty barring a few words.

I miss you, Elizabeth. Everyday.

I looked up from the messy handwriting on the page and, for a moment, I could have sworn he was looking right at me.